


Little Trinkets

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Major Character Death, Character Study, Destructive Behaviour, F/M, Gen, Inanimate Objects, Introspection, Jim Being Nihilistic, Jim Doesn't Like Feelings, Self Confidence Issues, Symbolism, bamf!Molly, canon violence, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's thoughts on how people represent themselves and some strange definitions he might give himself.</p><p>Or in which Molly gets sick of being overlooked and Jim's that emotionally stilted guy with rage issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim was fairly certain that everyone had something, some security blanket brought over from childhood or symbol they’d chosen to represent themselves. For Mycroft it was the umbrella he carried even when the sky was clear, the ultimate practical man. He was always prepared, well-accustomed to his surrounds, and while he knew he was not completely in control of them he could fight back without much fuss. Plus the fact that he worked so closely with the government’s special departments and yet hadn’t had his favourite accessory weaponised screamed confidence, and Jim liked that.

With Dr Watson it was those ridiculous knitted horrors that he insisted on wearing. They said approachable, soft, cuddly – they were practically physical bedside manner and yet he wore them like the armour of his former battlegrounds. They were a snuggly, stripy defence mechanism for the cold streets of London and her cold people.

Sherlock’s was obviously his violin. Playing it was the only time he ever allowed himself to create rather than observe, the only peace he could accept in an otherwise endless search for turmoil and darkness. Jim understood music the way he understood math, and while Sherlock’s artistic side might seem sensitive to everyone else, he knew it was just another way to slot things into their proper place.

Sebastian was defined by his gun, loved it, was loved for it. It was everything about his past, present and future. He’d probably been born with it in his hand, and Jim loved the juxtaposition of cool, hard outside and fiery explosions. He liked to think if the man had been around before the invention of pistols he’d have been as good with a sword but there was something about the directness of a gun that suited him so much more.

But what did Jim have? Nothing. Nothing he owned was precious to him, not even people. He might surround himself with luxury, ensuring everything was of the highest quality and style, but in the end none of it mattered. Perhaps he would have said his brain, but that wasn’t fantastic either in the scheme of things since its brilliance only served to make him so insensibly bored. Sometimes he thought it might be a spider, but he didn’t _own_ one of those. Sometimes it was a bomb, a knife, a poisoned apple – things that reflected his darker urges, but again none of them were more than fleeting. His suits were part of his image yes, but carefully constructed to reflect what he wanted, not necessarily who he was. Sometimes he didn’t actually know who the real Jim was anymore.

If the whim took him, he would have burned his entire apartment to the ground – hell, his entire organisation, and thrown himself on the pyre with it. But he wasn’t in the mood for fire today, so he didn’t, and he carried on without a symbol.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Jim used his handkerchief to hide his face from the hospital cameras as he walked into Bart’s morgue. Normally he didn’t like to return to the scene of a crime, but reports had come through one of his top men was dead and he had to be certain. No secondhand account would do.

The place was empty, the tables clear, but it was the work of only a moment to find the drawer with the right physical description. Jim opened the door and slid the body out, pulling back the sheet. _Oh Arthur. What an unfortunate day for us both_.

The door opened behind him and Jim’s head snapped up, hands still holding the fabric. Molly made it a few steps in before she noticed him, stopping in her tracks.

“What are you doing here?”

“Identifying a body. You must be used to that.” He drawled, dropping the sheet.

She took a step backwards and he sighed.

“Are you thinking about making a run for it, dear? Fine, I won’t stop you. I’m not here to cause mischief.”

Molly frowned and quirked her lips to one side. “You’re not?”

“No, not interested in you at all, just came to...pay my respects, I suppose.”

“Of course. Why would you be interested in me?” she said bitterly, walking over to her desk.

Jim raised a brow, smiling. “Do I detect a hint of disappointment?”

“No! I just- it’s always about Sherlock, isn’t it? I mean why would either of you geniuses pay the slightest attention to me? I’m boring and ordinary, right?”

His smile widened. _Someone’s upset with Sherly!_ He slid his ex-agent back into the wall.

“Are you feeling unappreciated?”

She rubbed her fingers over the corner of the desk. “That’s silly, isn’t it? I mean my patients are dead. They’re not going to thank me.”

“And their grieving next of kin are hardly grateful for you cutting them into pieces. No, I can see how you might feel ignored.”

He came closer as she shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

Jim was almost close enough to touch her now, smiling at the obvious disquiet on her face. He was preparing to make a snide remark when suddenly she spun, scalpel pressed against his jugular. Jim froze, both brows arched.

“Well! You’re full of surprises today.”

“You really didn’t come here for me?”

“If you didn’t believe me before, why should you believe me now?”

“People tend to be more truthful when they think they’re about to die.”

“I’m not ‘people’.” He smiled.

“No, you’re not.” Her face fell.

Jim slowly reached up a hand and wrapped it around Molly’s, but instead of pulling it away he pressed down until the blade just broke the skin.

“Could you do it, though? Could you actually kill me, if you had to? If you wanted to?”

Her eyes searched his face for a moment. “If I had to.”

There was something delicious in the firm set of her mouth. Jim found himself smiling. “Would you like to get out of here?”

“What?” her brow furrowed at his change in tone.

“Technically we’ve already had three dates, so we can skip the coffee and go back to your place.”

“You think I want to have _sex_ with you?” she hissed, looking around as if afraid someone would hear.

“Who wouldn’t?” he smirked and she rolled her eyes, “But if you’re not interested, I’ll be on my way.”

He stepped back from the knife, releasing her hand. Jim felt his neck and checked his fingers, the tips slightly wet with blood. He pulled his coat up higher so no one would notice and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Molly turned, “Why would you want me?”

Jim considered for a moment. “The idea of you slitting my throat mid-act is just gorgeous.”

She made a face. “You think I’d do that?”

“If you had to. Good afternoon, Miss Hooper.”

*****

Molly was rattled after her encounter with Jim, too shaken to stay the whole shift. She clocked herself out an hour early and decided to walk home, letting the bite of the wind cut at her face as she thought.

She’d been angry when she saw Jim. How dare he intrude on _her_ space? It was bad enough when Sherlock did it. Molly had so little that belonged to her, and these stupid brilliant arses kept thinking they could take it. No wonder she snapped and went for the scalpel.

What was surprising was that in that moment, she hadn’t been afraid of the consequences. Jim Moriarty was the most dangerous man in London, as Sherlock was so fond of telling her, yet for once she hadn’t given a damn what might happen. She let her anger get the best of her judgement. And he’d found it...intriguing? Molly couldn’t stop berating herself for being such a fool. _Keep your head down and stay out of trouble, that’s always been the motto, right? And look where it’s gotten you – you’re bloody invisible_.

 _Jim saw you_ , a very, very quiet voice piped up somewhere. She ignored it and walked faster, tucking her head down to keep her neck warm.

 

Jim went back to his flat with a smirk he couldn’t get rid of. Molly Hooper – who’d have guessed there was a spine under the flowery shirts and girlish ponytails? He could smell the coppery scent where she’d cut him, rubbing his thumb over it in the back of the cab. He honestly would have slept with her in that moment, partly to see how far she could be pushed and partly to get at Sherlock. He’d discounted her after the pool fiasco but maybe there was still more fun to be had with Molly.

He set aside a little time to check in on her schedule, pulling up the shift timetable for Bart’s. _I’ll give her a day to mull it over and a day to be angry with Sherlock_. He knew if the detective got her good and pissed off she’d practically fall at his feet for a kind word. Jim ran an eye over what he currently had going, already plotting ways to get Holmes in the lab as much as possible.

 

Molly clutched at the tray of beakers and ground her teeth as Sherlock made yet another scathing remark about her jumper. _So yes, it has kittens on it, but does he really have to be so awful? Just because he hates everything doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to like cute animals_. She glanced at the clock. The shift was almost finished anyway. Molly shoved the tray into the cupboard and looked at Sherlock.

“I’m heading home now.”

He didn’t seem to hear her and she sighed, walking out. Sometimes Molly wished she had the balls to storm off, but he wouldn’t notice anyway. She stripped off her coat, putting it in the bag to be laundered as she grabbed her purse from the locker by her desk.

“Nice sweater.”

She sucked in air through her nose loudly, stiffening up. Jim was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed and smiling at her.

“What do you want? Come to see another dead employee?” she slammed the locker door and stood.

“No, just you.”

“Why?” she scowled.

“I wanted to take you out, remember?”

“No, Jim, that’s not happening. You’re...you’re the bad guy with the dastardly moustache and I’m the girl who gets tied to the train tracks.”

“I always thought that was a very inefficient way to kill a person.” Jim stared off into the distance.

“Except usually the hero and the train track girl kiss before it fades to black, and mine just makes me want to cry.”

“He’s such a beast sometimes, isn’t he?”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

He closed the distance between them, looming over her as her back met the locker.

“Come on, Molly. Let’s have a drink. No train tracks, I promise.”

“Why? Why should I?” she said quietly, resigned.

“Because despite all Sherlock’s brains he’s a bully, and I just want to cheer you up.”

She laughed hollowly. “You want to cheer me up?”

“Maybe I’m hoping you’ll point another knife at me.”

“Maybe I will.”

“So you’re coming then?” he smiled victoriously.

Molly spluttered, opening and closing her mouth without making a retort. Finally she sighed.

“Let me go home and change first.”

“What’s wrong with the cat sweater?” Jim frowned.

“Don’t even start.”

*****

If anyone had asked Molly how she found herself falling into Jim’s bed, lower lip trembling, she would have told them she had a weakness for dark, clever men and emotional abuse. Jim at least had the honesty to make it clear she was nothing but a passing fancy; at least she knew where she stood with him.

If anyone had asked Jim, he’d have said her pathetic neediness was adorable.

He never lied about his work, but he never gave too many details either. He could be flattering, but the rest of the time he was just as biting as Sherlock, which oddly only made her more inclined to believe the compliments when he gave them.  Sherlock was only nice when he wanted something, but she already gave Jim whatever he asked so why would he bother trying to butter her up?

Most of all she liked having him around. Crazy and murderous though he was, he took her nice places and brought great takeout to her flat when she was sick and told her when she looked pretty. He might have laughed at her sometimes but he listened, and that was all she’d ever wanted, really.

 

Jim thought he’d tire of Molly after a week or two, but he was shocked to find he sort of enjoyed the domesticity. He liked having a place to go where he didn’t have to be Moriarty – he could just be Jim, Molly’s boyfriend. She had a soft wit under the awkward lack of social graces, and once he’d made it clear there would be no _Glee_ they got along well enough. He loved knowing Sherlock would never realise she’d come to work straight from Jim’s arms because he didn’t care enough to see it. In short, things were very different to what he’d originally imagined – a quick fling, maybe a horribly violent death, and nothing more than a brief distraction.

They were in Jim’s bed, cocooned in the deep red sheets. He rested his face in Molly’s hair and inhaled the sweet violet scent.

“I have to go.” She murmured into his neck.

“Nonsense. Stay.”

“I’ve got work.”

“I’ll call in sick for you.”

She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Crash the computers and rewrite the schedule?”

“Jim!” she shoved at him playfully, sitting up.

“Very well. I suppose I should get some work done.”

Her eyes took on a sort of detached look for a second before she recovered, pushing back the mention of his job with a smile.

“That reminds me. I got you something.”

He arched a brow as she got up and went to her bag in the corner, poking around. She came back with a flat rectangular box, crawling under the covers.

“Why the gift?”

“I saw it and thought of you.”

“Is it explosives?”

“No! Just open it, silly.”

He lifted off the lid and froze. It was a black silk tie, covered in delicate silver spider webs.

“Do you like it?”

He didn’t say anything, lifting it out of the box with a strange empty feeling.

Her face screwed up. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. It was only a stupid whim. I can take it back-”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“Thank you.” He said mechanically.

She smiled and kissed his cheek, getting up again. “I really have to go now.”

“Alright.”

She dressed quickly and grabbed her things, waving to him as she let herself, and the whole time Jim just lay there staring at the tie. _Since when do we buy fucking presents?_ He had to admit he did like it. The spider with his web, hadn’t Sherlock once called him that? But that was the problem – Molly was getting to know him.

Jim dragged himself out of bed, forgetting that only half an hour before he’d been begging her to stay. Now she was too involved in his life, too close, too time-consuming. She would try to make him soft, try to change him, try to ignore the parts that didn’t mesh with her dream boyfriend. It was unacceptable. He took out his phone to call Sebastian; there was an uppity detective whose fall was long overdue.

*****

“Are you okay?”

“What?” he looked over his shoulder, picking out a suit.

“You seem...distant, lately. Like you’re thinking about other things.”

“I’m busy.”

Molly clenched her hands in her lap. “I understand that. If you don’t want me here, keeping you from your work-”

“No! No, I want the company.”

“Alright.”

He kept getting ready, back to her as he fastened his shirt and put on the pants and jacket. His hand hovered over his extensive tie rack before picking a steel grey and maroon check.

“Why don’t you wear the tie I got you?”

He sighed heavily and spun. “Oh, we’re having one of those squabbles, are we?”

“No, I just- I’ve never seen you wear it, and you said you liked it...”

“I’m saving it for a special occasion,” He lied, tightening the grey one more than he needed to in his frustration, “Shall we go?”

Molly followed him downstairs wordlessly, climbing into the car beside him. By the time they reached the theatre she seemed to have cheered up, taking his arm when he offered.

“I’m really looking forward to this.” She smiled.

“Apparently the male lead’s not a total ham.” Jim agreed with a nod.

“How did you get tickets?”

He gave her a look that implied she didn’t want to know the answer and she wrinkled her nose but dropped the question. They made their way to their seats in the dress circle and Jim settled back for the show.

He was troubled. Usually when he wanted to focus on something nothing else existed, but even as he tried to concentrate on the actors he could only think of Molly’s warm hand in his on the armrest. _What is this madness? What is this_ emotion _?_ He couldn’t break her hold but leaving it there was unbearable. He felt like he was sweating profusely, like the heat of her was flooding his entire body. His skin itched as if he was going insane. When the curtain finally went down at interval he leaned over and whispered low in her ear.

“Would you be terribly disappointed if we skip the second half?”

“Is something wrong?” she frowned, full of concern.

“Only that I’d rather not lose time I could spend devouring you on this infantile production.”

She grinned shyly. “We shouldn’t waste your time then.”

 

Jim waited until they got back to her flat, knowing the backseat wasn’t roomy enough for what he needed. He practically dragged Molly up the stairs and fidgeted impatiently while she unlocked the door.

“What is the matter with you? You’re twitching!” she chuckled.

The handle turned and Jim flung it open, pulling her to him as they stepped inside. He sunk his fingers into her cheeks and jaw, lips latching onto Molly’s roughly. She squeaked a little in surprise but held on, kissing him back as she kicked the door shut.

“Jim, what’s the rush?” she gasped out as he broke off to attack her neck.

He swept her up into his arms, the satin gown trailing behind her as he carried Molly to the bedroom. Jim threw her down on the mattress and climbed over her. His hands felt like they were bristling with static electricity wherever he touched her, literally tearing the dress to pieces in his hurry to get it off. Molly tried to keep up, yanking at his shirt buttons to get them open. He succeeded in pressing their skin together, rubbing his arousal against her leg as he forced his tongue between her lips, demanding entrance. Molly ran her fingers down the back of his neck, arching up as he swept a thumb over her stomach. She gave a breathy sigh and Jim’s heart skipped. He snarled definatly, plunging into her. She shrieked and dug her nails into his shoulders, whimpering slightly at the sudden intrusion.

“Jim, Jim.” She said, rubbing his neck soothingly.

He thrust slower than usual, almost feeling bad if he’d hurt her before. He refused to meet her eyes, hips moving mechanically as her hands encouraged and invited him, holding him against her. This wasn’t what he wanted; he wanted distance. He wanted to fuck her out of his system. Jim sped up, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. Molly moaned his name and it was like a thunderbolt, freezing him in place.

“Jim?” she asked, confusion thick on her face as she pawed at his chest.

He pumped into her, determined to fix this. He’d get rid of this foreign feeling no matter what. _It’s just sex, so make it just sex_. He turned his thoughts to pleasing her, wielding all his skill to coax those moans and flutters from her. Jim wanted primal, he wanted passionate; no more whispered names in his ear.

He rolled himself into her, fingers trailing over her lips before he moved them down to her nipple. Molly gasped and writhed under him and Jim changed the angle of his strokes so he brushed against her swollen nubbin, his climax gathering at the base of his spine. Molly held on desperately, clawing and keening and finally she dragged his head down, sinking her teeth into his neck as she came with a wail.

Jim was helpless. The first spike of pain tipped him over with a screamed “Molly!”

Slowly she released him, smiling up at Jim as he stared breathlessly. _Shit_.

 

Jim laid back on the pillows, his arm around Molly, mind still racing. If anything it was worse now, the feeling she was too close, like she was under his skin. She moved her head on his chest so she could look up at him, her smile quickly fading when she saw his face.

“What’s wrong Jim?”

“Don’t concern yourself.” He snapped.

Her brows raised for a moment before she took on her timid, embarrassed smile. “Sorry.”

“Would you stop _caring_ so much? If you’re so determined to fuss over people you should have become a GP, not a pathologist.”

“What’s your problem tonight?” she sat up, holding the sheets to her angrily.

“Aw, did poor Molly forget who she was snuggling up to?” he stuck out his lip petulantly.

“No, actually, I didn’t. I’m just not sure why you’re being so spiteful this time.”

“Do I need a reason? Isn’t your existence enough?” he snarked.

“If you hate me so much, why are you here?”

“Easy sex?”

She slapped him and he growled, leering at her with sudden excitement.

“I don’t mind the harsh words if they’re true, but you could get sex anywhere.”

“Maybe I’m just biding my time until the main event,” he got closer to her face, nose tickling her ear, “Waiting to kill your marvellous Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Mr Holmes, the great consulting detective. I promised to burn him, and I will. Soon.”

Molly recoiled, shuffling into the corner of the mattress. “You’re going to kill him?”

Jim made a patient, condescending face. “Oh Molly, Molly. Did you think you’d reformed me?”

She laughed, the sound startling him. It was low and hysterical, much too bitter for her.

“No. No I never thought ordinary me could do that.” Molly clenched her jaw and spun, grabbing a carving knife from the space between the bed and the wall. She pricked the tip against his Adam’s apple.

“Get out.”

“I take it you object?”

“This is over, Jim, whatever it was – I mean, completely insane, obviously – it’s over.”

“Sad, because you know how much I love you with a knife in your hand. I’m about ready to go again, pet.”

She made a sharp side-swipe and opened his shoulder and Jim hissed, clapping a hand to the wound. He stared at Molly, eyes bulging crazily. Her mouth was grim, the knife steady as she glared at him.

“It’s a shame. If you could come round to my way of thinking we would make a fierce pair.”

“Get out!”

He climbed out of bed lazily, as if he’d just decided it was time to go. Jim gathered up his clothes and dressed quickly, the blood flowing freely from his cut. He ignored it, eyes locked on Molly.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

“No you won’t.” She said tearfully.

“Bye Molly.” He blew her a kiss, waltzing out.

Molly waited a long minute, anxious he might return, but when he didn’t she dropped the knife.  She ran her hands over her face, holding back a sob. _Sherlock. You have to call Sherlock – and say what? I’ve been sleeping with Moriarty and he just said he’s going to kill you?_ But she knew there was nothing else she could do.

*****

Jim woke up with the feeling that young soldiers get on the morning of a big offensive. This was it, the moment he’d planned for months, years even. This was the Final Problem. This was the ouroboros’ tail disappearing into its mouth, the beginning and the end. He showered like he was preparing for a ritual, scrubbing every part of him, combing his hair carefully, making sure he brushed his teeth with a precise number of strokes. He went to his wardrobe and picked a pale grey suit that he knew would contrast well with Sherlock’s dark colours. His hand moved to his ties and he paused, staring at the cheap black silk and spider webs hanging next to his Alexander McQueens and Westwoods. There was a sudden rush of some feeling he’d been shoving out of his mind for weeks, a sort of longing. He still hadn’t worn it. _Oh well – last chance I suppose_. Jim tied it neatly, pushing the knot tight as he viewed himself blankly in the mirror. He went to the bedside table and drew out a heavy silver gun. It wasn’t his usual thing, but then he’d figured if he was going to get his hands dirty he might as well go all out. He slid it into his coat pocket. _There. Ready_.

 

He walked through the hospital, enjoying the early morning quiet. The patients were mostly still asleep, the night nurses watching the clocks. Jim reached the intersection that led to the morgue and paused despite himself. She was probably right there, working away, back to her normal dreary life without him. Jim felt a pang of guilt before shaking his head. _No, it’s better this way. She wasn’t cut out for this_. He continued on to the roof, pulling out his phone to text Sherlock.

It always had to end this way. Jim’s ego wouldn’t let him be beaten by anyone but himself or Sherlock, and the detective had been disappointing on that front. He couldn’t surrender control to someone. It had to be by his own hand, and while he was looking forward to this final dance with Holmes the thrill of the trap was already done. Now the fall was a foregone conclusion and there was nothing left for Jim but the moment when Sherlock realised there was no escape. There was nothing left for either of them after that.

The door opened and he looked up expectantly, smile dying as the small brunette made her way across the roof towards him. He stood sharply.

“What are you doing?”

“I came to talk you out of this.”

“What made you think you could?”

Molly shrugged. “I had to try. I don’t want anyone to die.”

“Where’s Sherlock?” his eyes narrowed, “He’d never let you interfere.”

“I dosed his tea. He’s in the lab downstairs.”

Jim cursed. _Ruined, ruined, ruined!_ Hi careful scheming was going up in smoke because of _her_.

“You useless moron! What could you possibly say that has any worth?”

“You can’t kill him.”

“Oh, that old chestnut.”

“No, not you _shouldn’t_ , you _can’t_. I won’t let you.”

Jim laughed. “How would you stop me?”

Molly drew a gun and shot him in the leg and Jim yelled, staggering. His knee gave out and he dropped to the concrete, seething up at her.

“What the fuck!”

“You’re wearing the tie.”

“What?”

“You’re wearing my spider web tie. You came here to kill Sherlock – is that your idea of a special occasion?”

“The most special.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t even notice, and if he did he’d think it was about him like everything else. But you’re wearing it for me, aren’t you? Because I bought it.”

“Why do you persist in thinking you mean anything? You’re just a pawn in the game, darling, and you always will be.”

She knelt by his side, pressing a hand to the wound and he shouted, flinching.

“I don’t feel like a pawn right now. I took out both kings. And you know, it was easy. Both of you are so far up your own arses you never saw it coming.”

“Admirable, really, and if I didn’t have bigger concerns I might even be turned on. But you can’t ruin today, Molly.”

“Jim, you’ll never win.” She said pleadingly.

“I know.”

 

He drew his gun and opened his mouth, but he was losing blood and woozy and she managed to grab his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Winning. Putting myself forever beyond Sherly’s clutches.”

“Don’t do this. It’s not the answer.”

“It is, actually. It’s the Final Solution, as it were.”

“You want to give up? _You_?”

“I don’t think you’re one to scold me for being weak, Molly.”

She bit her tongue. “Fine.”

Molly put her gun in his other hand and closed his fingers around the grip, forcing him to press it against her jaw.

“What is this?” his eyes were wide, uncomprehending.

“If the world’s too bleak for you with all your money and brains, what hope have I got once you’re gone? If you really have to kill yourself, you’ll kill me too.”

“You think I wouldn’t?”

“I’m certain you would.”

She stared at him, the barrel cold against her skin as she stared him down. Molly searched Jim’s eyes for that spark of feeling she knew was there, knew it as plain as the tie on his chest. His blood was pooling on the roof beneath her legs, sticky and warm. Jim looked like he was seeing her for the first time, glancing between the gun and her face.

“No.”

“No?”

“You shouldn’t die. You were never part of this.”

“Wasn’t I? I feel like I was a pretty big part.”

“No. Get away! Get away from me.”

“Not until you give me those guns and let me take you downstairs.”

“Sherlock-”

“Sherlock’s not coming, remember? There’s no game, Jim.”

He seemed to consider it, looking down. The silver gun slowly dropped into his lap, tears welling up.

“There. That’s better.” Molly smiled.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“A lot, I’m sure, but at this moment? Nothing.” She loosened her grip on his hand.

“Would you ever forgive me?” he said flatly.

She smoothed his hair back off his forehead. “I don’t know. There’s so much between us...”

He nodded. “I understand. Can I at least have a kiss, since you shot me?”

Molly made a guilty face. “Sure. Sorry about that, by the way.”

She knelt forward and pressed a hand to his shoulder as their lips met. Jim wrapped a gloved hand in her hair and held her mouth firm to his. He pressed Molly’s gun against the bottom of his chin and pulled the trigger.

 

Molly reeled back at the sudden noise, her ears ringing. Jim slumped against the edge of the roof, eyes open and unseeing. There was so much blood, splattered all over the cement, trickling out from under his head and running down his neck to join the pool already at her feet. She stared, in shock. Her gun was still slack in his grasp, and though her mind ran off vague numbers for rigor mortis set-in and liver temperature all she could think was _That son of a bitch_. She watched him bleed out, not sure what to do. Should she call Lestrade? Wake Sherlock? She had a strange urge to drag him down to the morgue and try to pass him off as a John Doe, to spare him some kind of examination like an animal. The implications didn’t even hit her. She would surely be questioned, maybe even suspected. After all she’d shot him in the leg and he’d killed himself with _her_ very illegal gun. Maybe the smartest thing was to get as far from the roof as possible.

She rocked back on her heels and loosened the knot of the tie, wriggling it until she could pull it free of his neck. It was soaked, the black silk like ink, the silver webs stained red. She stuffed it in her pocket and took Jim’s silver gun, walking inside as she took out her phone.

“Molly?”

“John, you need to come to the lab. Sherlock’s passed out.”

“Oh my god! What happened? I’m just on my way back now, actually.”

“You should get here before he wakes up.”

She hung up and threw the phone in a biohazard bin, walking straight for the front doors with a little piece of Jim in her pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's purpose

Molly thinks there are things that happen to you that can never be undone. _You change too much to force it away somewhere inside_. She could certainly get over losing a boyfriend who was never very nice anyway, one she didn’t have strong feelings for, but watching him blow his own brains out was a different story.

She didn’t pretend to herself she could have stopped Jim. She felt she’d done a fairly good job delaying him as much as she had. There was no guilt, no real remorse. She wasn’t even sure she’d have ended it differently if she could. The world was surely safer without Jim in it; still she couldn’t shake a sort of hollow disappointment. What did she have now?

As her mind cleared Molly realised she couldn’t stay in London. There was a good chance she could convince the police she hadn’t murdered anyone, maybe even pass off her shot to his leg as self-defence, but if Jim’s people suspected she’d been involved her chances of survival weren’t good. She changed course halfway home, heading instead for the Tube station.

*****

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John ran into the lab.

“John?” he murmured, blinking as he lifted his head off the counter.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine, fine...was I asleep?”

“Molly said you passed out. Where is she?” John looked around.

Sherlock’s lids fluttered faster as he woke up. “What are you doing here?”

“Mrs Hudson was fine – what was that call about, by the way? Moriarty trying to get me alone or, or stop me interfering, do ya think?”

“Molly,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “She did something.”

“She said I should get here before you woke up- why did she say that, Sherlock?”

Holmes bolted out of the lab, John racing behind.

“Where are we going?”

His flatmate didn’t answer, taking the stairs to the roof two or three at a time. He burst through the door with a grunt, slowing to a stop, arms limp at his sides.

“Sherlock?” John looked at him before following his gaze to the corpse propped against the ledge, “Oh Jesus.”

“Is he dead?” Sherlock asked, even though the ground was soaked with blood and Jim stared at them expressionlessly.

“I’m pretty sure. Oh Jesus, what is this, Sherlock? Why is Moriarty on the roof?”

“I was supposed to meet him. I was going to...to jump. Where’s his tie? Jim would never wear a suit without a tie.”

“What? You arranged that call, didn’t you? With Mrs Hudson.”

“Moriarty wanted to ruin me, he had to make sure I couldn’t give my side of the story...I had to die, or at least appear to.”

“Well it looks like someone got there first.”

“Molly.” Sherlock hissed, pulling out his phone.

“Molly?” John frowned in confusion, looking at the body again.

“Mycroft? Mycroft, you need a team on the roof of St Bart’s. Moriarty’s dead. Yes, I’m certain. We’ll need protection too, just in case – Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as well. Yes, I think now would be an excellent time to bring Miss Kitty Riley in for questioning.”

He hung up, looking at the buildings around them. “Five minutes.”

“You didn’t mention Molly.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Doesn’t she need protection?”

Sherlock threw another glance at the body. “I don’t think so, do you?”

“You really think she did this?”

“Oh, the drugged tea is fairly convincing but no, Molly’s not a killer.”

“Then...where is she?”

Sherlock stared at the empty white space on Jim’s shirt, the only spot not completely soaked with blood.

“I don’t think she wants to be found.”

*****

Molly stared out the window as the train rattled smoothly past the tall peaks, legs crossed away from the aisle. The suit was fancier than her usual outfits, but Jim had once told her if you dressed well people asked a lot less questions.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

She froze as Sherlock sat opposite her. “What are you doing here?”

“The question is what are _you_ doing here, Miss…Hannah White?” he turned his head to read the ticket sticking out of her purse.

“I wasn’t sure how safe I would be in London.”

“The coroner ruled Moriarty’s death was suicide.”

“And you think Jim’s men would believe that?” she raised her brows, lips pursed tartly.

Sherlock was silent, glancing at the scenery. “I could have protected you.”

“I thought you might be angry.”

“I was, for a time. Took me quite a while to eventually track you down – well done.”

“I had a key to Jim’s flat,” she smiled sadly, “I helped myself to a little cash. I thought he would have approved.”

“He would have skinned you alive for stealing from him and then probably proposed for your courage.”

“He always liked my daring.” She muttered, resting her chin on her hand.

“You loved him.” Sherlock said vacantly, more a statement than an accusation.

“No,” she smiled, “No really, I didn’t. He just made me feel...wanted. Like there was some purpose to being me.”

“I...I want you, Molly.” Sherlock said with his eyes firmly on the table, visibly uncomfortable.

“I already heard this speech, Sherlock, remember? I’ve always counted and you’ve always trusted me? It’s not enough anymore. I need to find my own place.”

“You have one, with us.”

“A place where I’m _needed_. You don’t need me, Sherlock. I’m sure you can charm whoever replaced me at Bart’s into getting the things you want.”

She reached into her purse and took out the black tie, laying it on the table between them.

“If I learned one thing from Jim, it was not to take myself for granted.”

The train started to slow as they passed through the town, a recorded voice giving their location in German and then ‘ _Meiringen: alight here for Reichenbach Falls_.’ Molly stood.

“Go back to London, Sherlock. Solve crimes, catch bad people and try not to be so prickly with John. He’s very fond of you, really.”

“And you?”

She kissed his cheek as the train stopped. “I’ll be fine. Don’t start worrying about me now – I might think you care.”

Her eyes twinkled as she smiled and walked out of the carriage. Sherlock’s eyes fell on the tie still on the table. He picked it up and examined the silk, the silver spider webs stained a dull iron colour in places. He wrapped it around his fist and smirked, leaning back in the chair.

“At least you were good for something, Jim.”


End file.
